


Bed-Wrestling and Secrets Shared Amid the Spun Glass

by waveofahand



Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Falling In Love, Implied Sexual Content, John Lennon and Paul McCartney in Paris, John and Paul spend a day snuggling and talking, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, My Jamie, One Shot, Paris Honeymoon, Paul's mother had a special name for him, Romantic Soulmates, Sharing an umbrella, The Paris Trip in 1961, not graphic, what's in a name?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-16 23:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveofahand/pseuds/waveofahand
Summary: In Paris, after a night of startling intimacy, John Lennon and Paul McCartney spend a day lazing in bed, dozing and talking and snuggling and falling in love. Paul shares a deep secret with John, which means the world to Lennon. This is a romantic story set in 1961.





	Bed-Wrestling and Secrets Shared Amid the Spun Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blobfish_miffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/gifts).

> This story takes place a few days before the events of my previous one-shot fanfic, [**"The French Kiss."**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496), in which Paul gives John the gift he really, really wanted for his 21st birthday in Paris.
> 
> The "secret" Paul shares with John here comes into play, in dramatic fashion, in CHAPTER 10 (Trigger warning!) of my short story [**"Carry that Weight"**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/52720513).
> 
> The story also (briefly) references my multi-chaptered fanfic, [**"Mums, Yer Boys are Cryin'"**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45597766)  
Both stories are linked within the body of the text.
> 
> ***  
Beyond the fact that these men went to Paris together, this story is entirely fiction.  
And I don't own the Beatles or anything about them.

It was a lazy, linger-y sort of morning for John and Paul, one where they’d been content to stay in bed, naked and snoozy, falling in and out of light dozes as they cuddled, sometimes roused to brief consciousness by the church bells tolling the hour.

It seemed to them that in Paris everything was just a little bit lovelier than anywhere else -- everything seemed a bit more thought-through and fussed over, and even the Church bells seemed to possess an unusual sophistication. Not for them the sort of _clank clankety, clank-clank _noise that was typical of Liverpool, where the bellringers seemed dubious about the whole endeavor. The bells of Paris, they'd noticed, rang out with a richness of long, uninterrupted and resonant peals.

_Gooooong, goooong, goooong_ went the church bells, shivering for full minutes with reverberation. “That’s a serious bellringer,” Paul had murmured drowsily into John’s chest at one point. “He knows what he’s about, he does. No uneven melisma in his bellowing song.”

John had chuckled and the couple shifted positions a bit, snuggling back into their warmth and again falling into a mutual doze.

An hour later, the bells chimed again and John blinked awake, turning to look at Paul who was sleeping deeply enough to dream, his big eyes moving back and forth under their lids and causing his thick lashes to flutter lightly.

_Beautiful_, John thought in wonder. _Beautiful and mine_. And how could that even _be?_ How did someone like Paul McCartney – a sweet-natured, sexy and endless melody on legs – willingly partner himself to a such a distempered freak of a wire-haired terrier as John Lennon?

He didn't understand it. But he knew it was true, and that this lovely boy beside him really was his, because the night before, as they'd made love, [John had looked up at Paul and begged him to look back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496), for both of them to keep their eyes on each other as they reached their culminations, and Paul had done it, had opened his eyes and watched John.

And John had shown every bit of his vulnerability to Paul as he groaned and shuddered. All of himself, as much as he knew of himself.

And Paul had witnessed it and answered with a look that stunned John -- one that promised so much that was strong, so much that was capable and caring and even custodial.

So much that said, “_Forever_. I will take care of you, _forever_.”

Such a breath-taking look had Paul returned, as he had spilled himself into John. A look packed with so much of something unconditional that John had never seen before, not from Paul, or from anyone else.

Not ever.

And so, it was with a new understanding of intimacy -- as a closeness altogether grounding and real and deep -- that he studied the sleeping Paul, letting his fingertips roam softly against the younger lad’s pale and rather thin chest, slipping them down to the softness of his belly, where he traced soothing little circles, broadening them with each rotation, until suddenly a hand reached out and stopped his movements.

Paul was smiling, his eyes still closed. “Tickles,” he murmured. “Don’t.”

“Well, what if I do anyway,” John teased. “What you gonna do about it, my love?”

Paul’s smile lingered as he blinked a few times, turning his head toward John. “Well, you know, if you keep it up, I _might_ have to kill you…”

It was [an old, old joke between them](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45597766) \-- almost as old as their friendship -- and John grinned as he brought his fingertips back up and began circling Paul’s sensitive nipples.

“Aye, you’ll kill me, but only after you kiss me into stupidity, yeah?”

Paul sighed out his answer in a drawn out “yeahhhh” and put his arms around his lover's waist, nudging him to turn until he could straddle John with his long thighs, pressing him into the mattress. “I’m gonna kiss you stupid. Then I’m going to make you scream until there is no breath left in ye.”

***

It was early afternoon, and they were still in bed, still cuddled, arms and legs entwined, gazing into each other’s eyes and smiling and using only the softest of tones – just above whispers – when they did bother to use any words at all, because everything felt as delicate as spun glass, lovely, and light, and fragile, but oh so fine. Too fine to take in the message of the hourly bells, which told them that days were fleeting, that all fine moments must pass, that time could not be frozen, no matter how much they might want to try.

“Should we get up?” John asked.

“It's nice here,” Paul raised his eyebrows. “Comfortable.”

“Are you hungry? Should we get some coffee?”

“Maybe later. We’ll take a bath and go have a good dinner in a bit, yeah? I’m kind of loving just laying here with you.”

“Are we laying together or lying together?” John wondered.

“We’re _laying_. Also, I laid you a bit ago," Paul boasted with a smile.

“And that's no _lie…_” 

So fucking quick, was John, Paul marveled as he lit a cigarette, drew deeply on it and passed it over. They had plenty of ciggies, but he liked sharing, sometimes. Liked to watch John taste him on the end bit. Liked to taste John, when the cigarette came back.

“_Paul…_” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a statement. John had simply said his name.

“_John_…” Paul replied, speaking it near the shell of John’s ear, knowing his mate would shiver a little. Neither of them understood it, but something about the way Paul McCartney said his name tended to get right in among John Lennon. Even after all this time, it could shake him to his sinews.

John did shudder a bit. He crinkled his eyes in recognition of the direct hit. “No, but I was just thinking how much I love your name: _James Paul McCartney_. It sounds so solid and perfect. But why ‘Paul’? If your parents were going to call you by your middle name, why not make it your first name? Name you _Paul James_?

“I dunno, really,” Paul said with a frown. "I guess me mum wanted to honor me father, but didn’t want two Jim’s in the house? I know my da never liked 'James' – he thought it was too formal -- so they wouldn’t have called me that.”

“So, who’s 'Paul', then? Yer mum’s da?”

“N-no, he was Owen. I think ‘Paul’ is just me!" He lifted his head a little as he peered at his mate. "Why you so curious?”

“Oh, it's just...” John ran his fingers through Paul’s hair as he thought about it for a minute, “One of those mad-handsome RC lads has turned me head, you know, and taken me into his bed. Figured I better try to understand his big feckin’ family.”

Paul gurgled at him and leaned over, kissing him in appreciative amusement before answering. “There’s no understanding Clan McCartney,” he said, “But it’s sweet that you’d think to try.”

“But did you ever wonder what you’d be like, how you might be all different, if you’d gone about the world as 'James McCartney', instead of Paul?”

“Well, no. Have you ever wondered what you’d be like, if you were 'Winston Lennon', instead of John?”  
  
“It’s different,” John tamped out the ciggie. “I was only ever meant to be John. I am whoever, or whatever, I am.”

“Shotton calls you ‘Winston’ sometimes.”

“Aye, he does. Often.”

“Do you mind it?”

“Nay, not really.” John pulled Paul closer, until his head was on his chest, his unruly black hair tickling his nose. “Maybe if I’d been 'Winston John Lennon' I’d be...oh, I don’t know, a philosopher, or a journalist, or an explorer. I think our names shape us, you know?”

“'What's in a name?'” Paul began to quote, “'That which we call a rose…'”

“What would Shakespeare have been if he’d been 'Bernard', instead of 'William'?” John wondered.

“The under-gardener.” Macca answered instantly. “A lecher who would squeeze the milk maids on their arses as they walked by.”

“Yes! See?” John laughed. “Our names _matter_. They impact who we become. What if you had been called James? Where would you be now?”

“Probably…probably miserable at University,” Paul guessed. “Studying Latin.”

“Aye, you would. Hell, you might even be at seminary, becomin' a priest, with a name like that!”

“Oh, Christ, don't even suggest it!” John felt himself being given a sound pinch on his inner arm, and they began to tussle, bed wrestling for a bit, until all the touching led to kissing, and then…

***

It was late afternoon, and drowsing was beginning to feel old, even as, somehow, they kept getting pulled into a dopey sort of sleep.

“Shall we rise, then,” Paul asked as he watched John wriggle himself up on his elbows and shake his head, trying to clear it.

“I think we've been rising all day, don't you?” John reached for the ciggies, and struck a match. “We'll get up in a bit, though, yeah? I feel stupid. Is this what they mean by ‘punch-drunk love,’ then?”

“You’re probably dehydrated.”

“Aye, we haven’t exactly been replenishing our fluids as we've spent them, have we?”

Paul drew the sheet up to his neck and then settled back, his hands behind his head, elbows akimbo. “She would call me 'Jamie', sometimes, you know.”

John frowned down at him. “Who did, love?”

“Me mum.”

“Jamie? How cute is that? Were you a handsome little lad, _Jamie_?”

Paul kicked him. “Shurrup, ya git.”

“No, really, I think it’s adorable. _Little Jamie McCartney_.”

“Doesn’t sound like a rock and roller, does he?”

“I’d say not! Sounds like a big, braw, feckin’ caber-thrower of a lad, six-foot-four, eighteen stone, and able to toss boulders down into a glen.”

“You’re right,” Paul laughed. “But she only really called me that when I was young, and never before me da! Only when we were alone. When it was just the two of us.”

John looked intrigued. “So, it was a secret -- a special nickname just for the two of you to know about?” 

“I guess, yeah.” Paul answered, his gaze beginning to look clouded and distant as he thought back. “I remember once she’d taken me into the city proper because I’d outgrown me shoon. I must have been four or five, only. We’d got the shoes and then she took me to a shop where we had sandwiches and milk, with biscuits to dunk, you know?”

John smiled at Paul’s face, which had softened as he'd dived more deeply into his reverie. “Sounds lovely, Macca.”

“I remember,” Paul continued, “On the bus heading home, I was sleepy. Mum pulled me up fully into her lap and teased me, sayin’ ‘Oh, my wee Jamie, and it's such hard work to have new shoes, then? Close your eyes, lovie, and rest a bit, do you.'”

John sighed, imagining a small pale boy tiredly rubbing his huge eyes and resting his neatly-combed, dark head onto his mother’s shoulder. He could see it all before him, as with his own eyes -- real as Paul lying beside him, now -- and he felt a sense of longing stir within him as he watched Mary McCartney kiss her son, and heard her whisper, ‘_There you are, my sweet Jamie_’ into his ear.

Surprisingly, the scene wasn’t filling him with the usual corrosive jealousy that always arose so quickly whenever sweet stories of mothers and sons came up. Perhaps, John reasoned, it was because this story, this memory, belonged to Macca. And he cared so deeply for his mate that he just couldn't feel the envy.

Finishing the smoke, he wriggled down until he was eyeball-to-eyeball with Paul. “When else did she call you by that name, love,” he asked. "I like hearing about this."

“I can only remember a couple of times. Once, you know, I’d been very sick in hospital –”

“I never knew that,” John interrupted.

“Oh, aye,” Paul nodded, “I was ill for a couple weeks. Scarlet fever or summat. I never asked the particulars. I have a memory – it’s hazy, so I always wondered if praps I dreamt it – of her being there with me in the night, her eyes all deep with worry, and she climbed into bed with me, and held a cool compress to me head, and just…she just kissed me and lulled at me. Crooned some Irish too-rah-loo, you know? A lot of words and shushing noises that amounted to, ‘_Come now, Jamie, love, you must get better for mummy..._” Paul’s tone rose, high and soft, as though his memory was leading him to channel Mary McCartney. “_I’ll not leave, but you must be strong, my Jamie, and come back from this…_”

He sighed hugely and went quiet. John felt his own eyes begin to fill. He gulped and squeezed Paul’s waist with both of his arms.

“And once, when Mike and I were at scout camp, she showed up there. I don’t really know why, but something about our being away had made her anxious and she pestered a neighbor until he drove her out to us.” He frowned, “Actually, now I think of it, she saw both of us but when Mike wanted to get back to things, she let him go. Kept me with her for a while, though, and all the time giving me these anxious looks. As though she’d thought I’d been kidnapped, or fallen ill. She would grasp my hand and say, ‘And you’re alright, then, my Jamie? You’re safe and fine?’ I was, of course. Never understood tha’ visit.”

“Was it your first time away since being sick?”

Paul’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s a good question. Would make sense, wouldn't it? But I don’t think so. And then the last time I remember... I guess it was a year before she died. My fat year.”

“Ah, Fatty Jamie!”

“Ugh,” Paul groaned, his brow wrinkling at the despised taunt, _Fatty_, and the painful memories of his sudden weight gain, and all the teasing and bullying that came with it. “I came into the house -- huffing and puffing, probably -- and just ran up to my bedroom and slammed the door. It was hard, aye? I’d never been fat before, never been teased like that. I’d always had friends, and now they were…well…it’s hard to feel right about yourself when all of a sudden you’ve ballooned up like that. ”

John was quiet, knowing within himself that if he’d see Paul being called ‘Fatty’ he likely would have joined in. Kids were cruel, John knew. He was cruel, still. Often. Sometimes, even to Paul.

“Mum knocked at the door and then came in, asked what was wrong and you know, I just spewed it out, told her everyone hated me. I hated myself. Fat, so fat. _How did I get so fat_?”

“And did she put her Jamie on a diet?” John asked.

Paul's smile was bittersweet. “No. She pulled up the chair from my desk and sat across from me – I was on the bed – and she took me hands and just _looked_ at me for a moment.” His tone softened. “And she said, ‘You’re still the same lad you were six months ago, you know.’ She touched me here, where my heart is," He indicated the spot with his own hand, "And she said, ‘You’re the same sweet Jamie, the same strong Jamie, the same kind and tender Jamie. You’re body is just goin’ haywire a bit while it sorts itself out from boyhood into manhood.’”

“So, it was just puberty, then?” Lennon guessed. “That was a lovely way to put it, your body ‘sorting itself out.”

“Aye, it was,” Paul agreed. “She explained it. Said once my hormones had settled down a bit and decided where they'd land, the weight would come off by itself. And that’s what happened. She was right. And she was so sweet about it, John, you can’t know. The rest of the world had made me feel like I was rubbish, but Mum just gave me a hug and said, ‘You’re my lovely lad, and you’d be that no matter what. But _all will be well, my Jamie_…just watch.’ That’s what she said. “It will be fine, just watch.’”

"_My Jamie..._" John murmured softly, as he considered. "Did she always say it that way? '_My_ Jamie', like that?" 

Paul was very still for a moment, as though thinking back. "Aye," he whispered. "Aye, just like that. It's how I hear it in my memory -- always '_my Jamie..._'"

John felt dampness against his chest and worried that Paul was crying. He raised the younger man's head, holding him in tenderness with both his hands. There was only the trail of a solitary tear, but he kissed it, and then lowered his lips to Paul’s, seeking not to seduce but to bring simple solace to an everlasting ache he himself knew all too well.

“Baby,” he whispered as he pulled back. “It’s been a fine and lovely day. Let’s make a fine and lovely night of it, yeah? I’ll go run the bath.”

***

It was raining, but to John and Paul’s eyes, the wetness only made Paris more beautiful as the city streets reflected its shimmery light. They’d finally eaten a decent meal and had their share of water and wine (and the rich, strong coffee they were growing to love), and as the rain became a drizzle they decided it would be romantic to take a turn about the boulevard, gazing into the shop windows, all full of antiques or toys and furnishings.

In truth, they were looking less at the varied wares before them, and more at their own images, mirrored back at them in the darkened windows. They liked what they saw: a young couple on holiday, warmly in sync and in love, sometimes holding hands discreetly as they paused and looked, and then moved on.

“John, it’s so perfect, here,” Paul announced happily. “In every way.”

“You make it more perfect, Macca-love, so pretty you are,” John leaned in to whisper.

“Stop that,” Paul nudged his shoulder. “Stop calling me 'pretty'.”

“You’re right,” John said. “You’re beyond it. I swear, love, sometimes I look at you and I feckin’ gasp, because your beautiful face strikes me right in the gut and it’s as though I’m seeing you for the very first time.”

“No, Stop please?” Paul made a face of disgust. "Enough. I’m just a bloke.”

“You’re my bloke, though, ain’t ye?” John grasped his hand as they turned a corner.

“That I am, and twice again.”

John moved closer to Paul, his hand folding over where his partner held the umbrella. “I want to thank you, you know, for telling me about your mum, earlier. About your name.”

Paul narrowed his eyes, looking quizzical. “You’re welcome I guess. But why?”

“Because…it’s something only you and Mary ever knew about, just between the two of you. And now, I know. And we two are the only ones in the whole world who will ever know, now, that you are not just Paul, but _Jamie_, her Jamie- sweet-and-strong. It's for just you and me, now."

Paul smiled and stroked John’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “A secret kept from the whole world…yeah, I guess it is. _Top-secret_. For your eyes only, like the rest of me, your secret top, eh?”

“No, don't joke," John objected with a pleading look. "I'm being very serious. You took something you've held close to yourself your whole life, and today...you've shared it with me. Like you trust me, and all.”

“Of course I trust you --” Paul started.

“No, shut up a minute. Understand me, aye? You were the only person alive who knew. And now I know it too, _just me_. Not even your da, or your brother -- as though I'm that close to you, closer than they. It means a lot, Macca,” John held Paul’s gaze, wanting to be sure he was heard. “It means an awful lot, to me.”

“Well,_ you_ mean an awful lot to me, John.” Paul's voice sounded rough, but his eyes were wholly focused on John, clear and direct. “If you didn’t already know it, you should, this night. I love you, lad. I do.”

John shivered to hear it, took in Paul’s words like a thirsty man who had passed too many mirages, finally stumbling up to a pool of fresh, sweet water -- a reality of something good, and pure, and all for him. “Oh, _Macca_…my Paulie...” For once, John Lennon could not find his words. "You said it!"

“I did." Paul smiled. He moved a little closer to John, as much as he dared to on the street. “Alright, there, love? Cat got yer tongue?” He let John have the umbrella and took his hand. “Let’s go see if our room is re-done and all, and the bed made and the sheets all new and crisp. I love clean sheets.”

“But…” John looked around. “I thought you wanted to walk, and to look about.”

“I don’t need to look about any further. I see what I want, Johnny. It's all right here, before my eyes.”

And so, they turned back to the corner, retracing their steps from the shops, to the café, to their small pension, which they approached just as the sky began to clear. As Paul was fitting his key into the slot, John stayed his hand.

“Paul…” he said.

Macca turned, looking at him expectantly, one perfect eyebrow raised as he watched John’s expression, so intent -- so _serious_ in the pale moonlight.

“I just…can I just say…”

“What, love,” Paul asked quietly.

“I love you, too. I do." A whisper was all John could manage. "I love you..._my Jamie_, sweet and strong…”

Paul closed his eyes and sighed as he pressed his forehead’s to Lennon’s and just stayed there. He was surprised at his trembling reaction to hearing John use the name in that moment, with those words. He could feel his blood thrumming up into his heart and quivering his breath. Without looking, he turned the key, and as the door opened he pulled John inside, before anyone could see their kiss.

Beneath John's warm lips, his Jamie could feel himself melting, coming all apart as the door clicked behind them. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea if James Paul McCartney's mother ever used a particular nickname or a private sweet-name for him. I was just imagining what it would be like for him, if she had, to hear someone he loved call him by that intimate name, again.
> 
> "Jamie" comes up again in my multi-chapter story [Carry that Weight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/52720513)
> 
> "The French Kiss" [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496)
> 
> Also, "Mums, Yer Sons Are Cryin'" (A 13-chapter story about the death of John Lennon's mother, and how Paul helped John deal with it, although not-canon), you can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45597766):


End file.
